In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

DIALOGUE WITH THE WRITER “I read your book.” “What do you think of it?” “It’s a bit confusing.” (On the other hand, your soul is clear, señora.) “I’m very sorry.” “Maybe you could explain to me what you meant in it.” “I can’t answer you. If I knew, I wouldn’t have written it.” “Then the words, they are all darkness?” “I don’t know what to tell you. At that very time, a lot of people were dying in the streets. You can still see the large number of wounded and crippled that roam the street, or beg for alms, or hope for a bit of compassion and public charity.” “But meanwhile, you were writing it.” “No, señora: I was dreaming it.” “Dreams are not always easy to understand.” “I write the way I dream, señora.” “Don’t you think you could respect the reader a bit more?” “I respect the reader so much, señora, that I would never want to touch the dream, nor touch the book, nor betray the magnificent alienation of the metaphor.” “I no longer understand.” “It’s understandable.” “If you don’t know what you meant when you were writing, and you’ve created this uneasiness in me, come at least and make love to me.” “I can’t, señora, forgive me; since the last rally suppressed by the police, I have generated a strange impotence: I was at a café reading my poetry and by chance I saw a grenade explode right next to the legs of a young woman and the façade of the National Library. The noise inter- —— 24 —— 15 ...

Share